


And Dancing 'Til the Next Sunrise

by alltheircrimesarejust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Real World, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Concord, Existentialism, Gen, Ghosts, Lots of art history, M/M, Massachusetts, Multi, Ori has a passionate obsession with cotton rag paper like all good printmakers, Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, brief descriptions of violence, or at least dead existentialists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheircrimesarejust/pseuds/alltheircrimesarejust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Other than being able to see ghosts all his life (well, maybe only the one), Bilbo Baggins is perfectly normal and not at all extraordinary. Having recently completed his studies, he is embarking on a new career at the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts (which has nothing to do with witchcraft, thank you) and meeting new coworkers and neighbors, including a kindly old man, a rambunctious pair of students, and a very condescending curator from London. Everything is fine and normal and, deep down in his heart, it seems as if he's known these people for ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: I've Seen It All by Björk

Past a certain point, he’d simply altogether stopped bothering to say that he was bound for Salem, Massachusetts. Despite everything Bilbo had said by means of explanation, it always seemed to boil down to his relatives only half-listening and then asking if he would be researching witchcraft. At first he’d tried to explain that, no, thank you. He would be working as a curatorial assistant at the Peabody Essex Museum, quite likely spending a great time dealing with nothing so threatening as an antique chair. Furthermore, Bilbo had added, Salem’s history was tied with the witch trials and anyone who believed in actual witchcraft was patently ridiculous.

  
After a while he’d realized that his Aunt Lobelia had only had one ear open for the conversation and both eyes on his mother’s silver spoons and had simply stopped bothering.

Instead, Bilbo had quietly packed up his apartment and signed a new lease for a duplex apartment near the museum where he’d be working. He had then gathered up his few tolerable relatives and school friends and trundled as much of the mess as he could into a rented truck bound northeast from Boston.

And there he was now, looking quite warily at the narrow house. The top floor was to be his. The ground floor apartment was occupied by a pair of students who, according to the landlady, were a surprisingly well-behaved set. Bilbo did not feel inspired with confidence that he would get on with his neighbors but really felt no reason to fuss when the greater part of his concern lay in how he was to get his furniture up. Unsure of the particulars, Bilbo took his bookshelf up first.

“Right,” Bilbo assured himself as he pushed the shelf along the stair landing, huffing and puffing only a little. “This will be fine.”

Downstairs on the front porch, Bilbo heard a peal of merry laughter, some muffled words, and then a loud knocking at the door. Unsure of what the issue could be already, Bilbo came to the door.

There were two men standing on the porch, looking at him expectantly. One was a stocky blond, his long hair neatly tied back at the base of his neck, with a matching beard and mustache. His companion was of a slimmer build with black-brown hair that he wore loose, down to his chin. Both were smiling as they saw him. “Hello!” the brown-haired one said. “I’m Kili, he’s Fili.”

“Yes, hello,” Bilbo said, feeling rather uncertain.

Fili looked at Bilbo and then out to the boxes at the base of the porch. When he spoke, it was with the very slightest of accents that Bilbo couldn’t place. “Is all of this yours? Is anyone helping you?”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows and looked between them before following Fili’s gaze to the flat-packed desk, book crates, bins full of cooking equipment, and the various and sundry other possessions he’d brought with him. It hadn’t seemed so much when he was packing up the apartment in Allston but now it loomed at him. “Well, no. I suppose it is just me.”

“What? Just you to get all that upstairs?” Kili didn’t wait for Bilbo to respond before launching himself over the railing of their porch and grabbing for the largest box, beckoning to Fili with his head. “We’re not busy!” As if Bilbo had already spoken and addressed concerns.

“Oh I can’t...you really don’t need to…”

Fili waved his protests off before maneuvering backwards toward the staircase. “We’re waiting on something anyway, may as well!”

Bilbo stood there for a long moment, stunned as the young men deposited the box with hardly any noise before tromping down the stairs, laughing and shoving. When they picked up the box containing his desk, Bilbo finally shook himself out of it and hurried to get his box of kitchen equipment rather than standing there like a confused dunderhead.

It felt like barely an hour before Bilbo’s possessions had relocated from sidewalk to apartment but Fili and Kili still stood at the ready, looking up at him. Bilbo hoped he wasn’t expected to give them a tip.

The silence dragged on for a moment too long before Kili, looking over at the boxes, finally said, “So where do you want everything?”

“What?” Bilbo asked, not quite catching his meaning.

“Your stuff,” Kili said, gesturing to the scattered boxes. “Where d’you want it?”

Grateful as he was for his neighbors’ sudden inspiration to be of assistance, Bilbo couldn’t quite understand why they were so keen to stay and help more. “No, that’s fine. I need to sort it out for myself,” Bilbo finally managed. “I don’t know where to put anything yet. Not that I’m ungrateful. Thank you...”

He was surprised to see a little disappointment on their faces before they shrugged it off almost as one. It was Fili who stepped back first, nudging his roommate’s shoulder. “Nice meeting you though,” he said, retaining his same easy smile.

Fili was halfway down the stairs when Kili finally followed with the ominously cheerful farewell of, “Let us know if the music gets too loud!”

“The music?” Bilbo asked slowly, but Kili had already slammed the door. He could hear laughter in the stairwell.

Well. That didn’t bode well at all and, with a sigh of resignation, Bilbo opened the box nearest to him and set to work. The apartment had been painted between tenants at least, but he still needed to clean the place to his standards. Crossing over to another box, Bilbo extracted several cleaning supplies as well as a bottle of red wine.

“Right, finish setting everything up and then we’ll have a nice glass of wine,” he told himself. Bilbo felt it to be an exceedingly fair bargain and set about dusting and scrubbing the bedroom so that he could set up his bed and night table. The clothes in his suitcase he would deal with later, when he felt the closet was clean enough.

When he had a place to sleep for the night, Bilbo started towards the kitchen and almost dropped his dustpan when he saw his guest in the kitchen. As always, a thin old man with a white ponytail stood in wait for him, though his gaze was squarely on the red wine. He made no move to retrieve it, seeming barely solid enough to grip the bottle by the neck. Noticing Bilbo, he turned and smiled, pointing to the floor, before fading away.

“Oh goodness,” Bilbo said. “I thought I’d gotten rid of you when I moved.”

It was always a fool’s hope. He’d seen the old man in the hallways of school and then in his college dorm now and again.

“I know I’ve moved to Salem but that is no excuse!” he told the empty air. “In fact, I think it’s even less of one than ever. Go make some new friends in the cemetery!”

Perhaps he ought to just open the bottle of wine now and have a glass while he tidied his kitchen. Once the counters and sink were wiped down, he would have some sandwiches and then start on the living room. It was a solid plan and he would continue on as he ever had. He would keep to himself and ride his bicycle to work, where he would categorize and take notes on the museums acquisitions. Then he would spend his evenings cooking and then quietly having a glass of wine.

It was hardly an exciting life, but there were other people for that. For Bilbo Baggins, there was little more a man could want.

As he took out his bread, Bilbo could hear a faint plucking sound, followed by laughter. Straining, Bilbo realized it was coming from the downstairs porch and opened his kitchen window. Leaning down, he realized that the laughter was from Fili and Kili and the plucking came from a fiddle and a guitar as they began  to sing.

“ _While in the merry month of May from me home I started. Left the girls of Tuam so sad and broken hearted…_ ”

Was this the music they’d warned him about? Because if so, they could do a lot worse than _The Rocky Road to Dublin_.

Perhaps it would be all right living here, Bilbo thought, sipping his wine.  
  
\---  
  
Violins and folk tunes buzzed in his dreams to the point that Bilbo thought he could still hear his neighbors singing when he awoke the next morning.

It was early enough in the morning and with the apartment only half-unpacked, everything felt oddly still. For a moment, Bilbo felt like he was the ghost in the apartment, like he’d really existed a long time ago and in an entirely different place only to suddenly appear here.   He smiled and shook his head; what a silly thing to think. The apartment, certainly, lacked a homey touch, but that would easily be fixed.  
That would have to wait for the evening. For now, he needed to eat breakfast and take his bicycle to the museum.

It was a pleasant ride through the streets of Salem in the early morning, even with the oppressive summer heat of Massachusetts. There were a few enterprising tourists walking through the streets and he could hear the children of a summer camp playing in the distance. Perhaps, when it got too hot, he could expect them to come filing in to the museum’s Nature Center. There was nothing quite so nice to him as the thought that children could be learning and their curiosities being expanded.

That happy thought carried Bilbo to his new office where he was happy to see his name on a small plaque right underneath the one that read Balin Fundinsson, his new employer. “Hello?”

The door pulled open and Bilbo got his first look at Balin. Their interview had been over the phone and he had been given the impression of a genial man, prone to going on tangents related to their areas of research. Now he got the full measure of him. Mr. Fundinsson was only a few inches taller than Bilbo himself with a stout figure. He wore a dark red waistcoat and was holding a cup of tea. “You’re early, lad. Come in, come in.”

“Better an hour early than a minute late,” Bilbo quoted, following him in and glancing around the office. The central area was Balin’s, but he could see a few side rooms equipped with desks, two of which were empty. Bilbo hoped he could be given the one with the larger window but said nothing for the time being.

“You and our eager young intern both,” Balin said. He indicated a slim, college-aged man who was going through photos on a camera. “If you need any photos tidied up for catalogues, you should ask Ori there. Ori, come over a moment!”

“Yes, Mr. Fundinsson.” The intern put the camera down very gently before trotting across the office to shake Bilbo’s hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m Ori.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” he replied, taking the proffered hand. Something about Ori’s easy smile set Bilbo immediately at ease. Turning back to Balin, he smiled, “I hope you can forgive my being eager to start. History waits for no one. Or, well, I suppose, having happened, it does. But I certainly can’t wait to catch up with some of it.”

Balin chuckled, seeming to understand Bilbo’s illogical words, and nodded. “Yes, very true. I think. Now, we spoke on the phone about what you’d be doing but I’d like to show you in person. At the moment, we’re preparing for a collaborative exhibition of maritime pieces. You said you specialized in maps?”

“Oh yes, and their preservation and restoration. Though you said I shouldn’t expect too much of that right away?”

“Not until the curator from London arrives but we’ll wait to see the condition of the pieces Mr. Oakenshield delivers before planning too far ahead. Right now, we need to go back over the data, make sure labels match and dates and provenance are as correct as we can get them.” As he spoke, Balin turned around and pulled down a few files. “I’ve meant to return to these sooner. These are the ones that are in greatest need of cataloguing and will be in the workroom waiting for you.”

Bilbo flipped through the folder and saw that it was a mass of post-it notes layered over more notes, many of them ending in question marks. There were a few different handwritings across the notes, making the whole folder read like an argument. While Bilbo was quite certain he could get it all sorted out, he would need more than a little time.

“So were these all donated from the same collection?”

Balin nodded, mouth going crooked. “The donor was a bit puffed-up, much like the aunt who left the maps to him to begin with. Some of them may be honest mistakes–misconstruing that a map hung in George Washington’s library rather than being a map _like_ what may have hung there–and a good few of them may be outright lies. The notes should be entertaining, at the very least.” Bilbo felt there was an unspoken _bless your heart and best of luck_ hanging in the air.

“And how much time do I have to sort these out for myself before Mr. Oakenshield arrives?”

“Oh I’d say about two and a half weeks. He means to arrive by the last week of July.”

“So no rush, I take it,” Bilbo said, half to the thick folder. “Right, then I’d better get to work. Where are they stored?” He could wait to set up his office until later. There were maps to attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, wow, okay. So I actually haven't written any fanfiction in a long, long time but let's give it a shot. I hope the first chapter whets your appetites for the rest of the upcoming story, which is equal parts "Gosh darn it I really want to try a reincarnation fic" and "Gosh darn it I really miss living in Massachusetts."
> 
> The Peabody Essex Museum really IS excellent and if you can, I suggest taking a visit. That said, while I do work in art history, I have VERY limited experience with the curatorial side of things so forgive me if I'm winging it a little. 
> 
> Oh and the bit about map provenance is more or less paraphrased from the director of collections at my university's museum, re: their fashion collection. "What he may have meant is that it was a dress LIKE Martha Washington wore and the docents misconstrued that. But we have some pieces that strain credulity."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: Summer Skin by Death Cab for Cutie

It was always easy to fall into tasks and routine, even more so when Bilbo was studying what he loved. Every day was spent in a climate controlled room, hunched over antique maps, and taking notes on every single detail he could encounter. It was, for him, very interesting work though very trying. Though the museum donor had been deservedly proud of his inherited collection, it seemed neither he nor his estate had known a whit about the actual conservation and care of them. Some had arrived in tight rolls and yet others had been placed in cheap frames behind plastic sheeting with the condensation damage to match. There were even a few neglected maps in the collection that had clearly been seen as unfit for an attractive display; buried in storage prior to donation and exposed to water damage and the nibbling teeth of rodents. 

Thankfully, some of the finest examples had been seen for what they were and had been treated with acid-free baking and allowed to lie flat in folios, but Bilbo felt quite certain that there were a few overlooked gems that needed polishing.

Working with the maps now, Bilbo could understand the conflicting notes in the accession folder. Some of them were nearly in tatters, including an easily forgotten little map that looked like it had been hand drawn. The size of the paper indicated that perhaps it had been included in a letter. It would be the hardest the puzzle back together, though he was confident he could get it back into good tick soon enough. He’d wait until after the easier repairs were done, letting him devote more time to doing the thing right. 

The work was quiet and absorbing, solitary but never lonely. At times he would be so absorbed in the work that he actually forgot to eat his midmorning snack. 

If he needed company, Bilbo would have only had to stick his head out the door and into the other workroom to wave at Ori. That was, if he could get Ori to divert his attention from the stack of nineteenth century French lithographs that he’d been helping Balin organize. 

His evenings were generally spent the same way. At the end of day, Bilbo would ride his bicycle back to his apartment. If Fili and Kili were on the porch, he waved hello but always declined their invitation to chat while they played their music. They seemed too much a unit and he was a terrible singer. Besides that, work had made properly moving in a slower process than expected. It didn’t seem right to go sit around when he hadn’t really settled into his home. Bilbo had already switched his kitchen arrangement around twice, not finding the right flow to the space. If he couldn’t settle into his kitchen and prepare something to bring down then what was the point? 

Instead, he preferred to open his kitchen windows and enjoy the music as it was carried in on the breeze. Once he was settled in, Bilbo told himself, then he might properly have them up for supper. 

His planned schedule, however, was interrupted one Monday morning by a loud rapid knocking. 

“Yes, all right, I’m coming!” Bilbo called, wondering if something important had come in the mail. 

When he opened the door, he was greeted by his two downstairs neighbors. “We’re going to Walden Pond!” Kili announced. “Fili’s never been! Have you?”

“No, can’t say I have,” Bilbo admitted, wondering why they needed to come upstairs and announce it to him before they left. Privately, he couldn’t understand why they weren’t going somewhere nearer instead, like Revere Beach. Or maybe Provincetown, they seemed the types that would enjoy the crowd. 

“Good then! You’ll come with us,” Fili said. “We have towels already! Get a suit and we’ll go take the Commuter Rail.”

“What, from Salem to _Concord_?” It wasn’t exactly the most straightforward trip. “If you need a ride, the truck I had was only a rental.” 

They shared a look before turning back to Bilbo, looking at him as if he’d declared that two and two equalled watermelons. “Who cares about that? We just want you to come. It must be boiling on the top floor,” Kili gestured around them.

It was true, even Bilbo had to admit that. A couple of fans and open windows had created a reasonable cross-breeze but there was only so much to be done about a Massachusetts summer at the height of its blazing, sticky heat. 

Besides, there _were_ some nice museums there and he’d never had a chance to explore. That and the look on his neighbors’ faces gave him the impression of a pair of wriggling puppies and telling them no almost seemed cruel. 

“Right then,” Bilbo said, not quite sure if he even had a pair of trunks. “Give me just a moment.”

Kili actually whooped like they’d won a victory and Bilbo shook his head, returning to his closet. There was, luckily, one pair buried in the back.

Really, he thought as he followed them down the stairs. Couldn’t they have asked him last night? Then he’d have at least been able to pack some sandwiches into a cooler for everyone.

\---

As Bilbo suspected, the route Fili and Kili chosen location entailed an inefficient mix of taking an inbound line to North Station in Boston itself and then catching an outbound line to Concord. They traveled over two legs of a triangle because all the commuter trains held a greater interest in getting everyone to a central point rather than the other spokes of the wheel. 

The collective hour and a half journey consisted largely of Bilbo sitting and half-listening while Fili and Kili chattered among themselves. He wondered at their enthusiasm for having him come along when they seemed to be perfectly happy in one another’s company. 

“Have you been listening to us?” Fili asked, somewhere between Cambridge and Waltham. “When we play?” 

It was only then that Bilbo realized that both of them had brought along instruments. Fili’s violin case rested against his leg while Kili had a backpack shaped like a miniature guitar looped over his shoulders. “Yes. Yes I do,” he admitted. “It makes the unpacking a little easier. Do you both play the violin?”

Kili laughed and shook his head, “Lord no. I have my guitar and my uk’ here.”

“Pardon, your what?”

There was more laughter but Kili unzipped the case. “Ukelele. Easier to carry around on the T.” He laughed and looked over at Fili, “He can tell you all about that, can’t you Fee?” 

His friend swatted his arm, “You try it someday.” Smiling despite the apparent embarrassment, Fili turned to Bilbo and explained, “We keep rats you see. And the first pair I bought was on a whim in Boston. I had to carry them in a case on a mall shuttle and then ride the Red Line and then take the rail back up to Salem.” 

“Pet _rats_?” Bilbo asked. As far as he was concerned, rats were just horrid creatures who chewed up antique maps. How many of them were living beneath him?

“Yeah, four of ‘em,” Kili said proudly. “Myrtle, Minty, Molly, and Daisy.”

With names like that they almost sounded like cartoon characters rather than vermin, not that Bilbo had any particular desire to get to know them. “Well, er,” he said. “Did they make it all right?” 

It was Fili’s turn to laugh. “They fell asleep. Everyone kept staring and jostling and they didn’t care!”

Bilbo had to smile a little at that. It seemed some animals, even rats, could survive Boston’s public transit with more grace than some humans. 

From there, Bilbo Baggins discovered a good many things about his downstairs neighbors by the time they were exiting their train. Neither of them, he learned, were majoring in music despite their obvious affinities. Rather, Fili was learning photography and Kili was determined to become a teacher. Fili was actually named Feodor but had acquired the nickname when they were both freshmen. 

“We met at orientation,” Fili explained. “I’m international, from Russia actually, but the second I got a look at Kili something _clicked_. We’d never fit with another person so well and soon people started mixing us up–” 

Bilbo made a slightly incredulous clucking sound that made Kili flush. “I was bleached blond then. I’ve destroyed the evidence. But yeah, so they’d somehow manage to mix up Feodor and Kieran and…” he laughed. “Nicknames are easier. So now we’re Fili and Kili.”

Fili gave him a mock bow, “At your service!” 

Well of course they were, Bilbo thought. They made perfect sense as a pair, forever moving and thinking nearly as one, protecting one another. Fili forever running forward and Kili at the ready to back him. They’d always meant the world to each other of course they’d have–

Bilbo tripped over the tracks they were crossing. In the rush to get himself standing without too much embarrassment or fuss, he quite lost whatever thought had been at the tip of his mind. 

“Careful there!” Fili grabbed him by the arm and pulled him over. “No need to get run over!”

He didn’t bother telling them that that had most certainly not been the plan. Instead he followed as Kili took out his phone to figure out where to walk next. Rather than hurrying right to the pond, it seemed the boys were more interested in a meandering route that took them walking through Concord. Bilbo had started to get annoyed, but between the small cheese shops and book stores, it was hard to actually mind. 

It was unsurprising when Fili dragged them all into an eclectic toy store where toys wheeled above their heads and plush toys peered at them from all corners. Fili didn’t seem to be looking for anything so much as drawn to the bright colors and cheery atmosphere and Bilbo had a hard time blaming him or Kili when a place just seemed so friendly.

He was deep in contemplation of a stuffed bird when Bilbo noticed a presence behind him. “That’s a thrush,” the owner explained. “That’s why he’s got a snail in his beak.” Once it was pointed out to him, Bilbo did notice that the puppet did have a little glass snail in his parted beak. It was easy to imagine the little bird cracking the shell up against a stone or a door. 

“Yes, of course. My mother was quite fond of them,” Bilbo said. “It’s quite a unique toy.” 

The owner smiled deep into the corners of his mouth, which made his eyes crinkle and give him a look of mischief. It reminded him of an impish Santa Claus. “That it is. I get most of my toys from national suppliers, but all of this shelf are handmade by the proprietor of this fine store.”

“You mean you,” Bilbo said, noting the man’s easy smile. 

“I _did_ say it was a fine store, did I not?” He held out a hand to shake. “Roger Carpenter, but I’ve been living here since before I could say my own name right. Call me Bof, or Bofur.” 

Bilbo shook Bofur’s hand, “Yes, I understand. I was quite insistent that William was too hard to say.”

“So what’ll I be calling you then?”

“Bilbo.”

Another one of those eye-crinkling smiles and then Bofur let go of his hand. “You tell me if you see anything you like and don’t give me any nonsense about something being for a niece or nephew when it’s for you.” 

He breezed back behind the counter and left Bilbo to contemplate the shelf of personal, handmade wares again. They were really quite impressive, matching the manufactured toys in quality. It would be a shame not to support a craftsman, he decided, and the thrush would add some cheer to his desk at work. 

As he approached the counter, he could see that Bofur was now deep in conversation with Kili about the ukelele. He was in the process of showing Kili the tin whistle that he kept just under his desk when he saw what Bilbo carried. “Glad to see you’re giving him a home. I’ve always thought a home needs a few birds to let you know a place is safe.” 

“Especially crows and ravens,” Kili said. When Fili gave him an odd look, he shrugged, only explaining, “I’m fond of them. They make trouble.” 

“Yes, of course you would,” Bilbo said, paying for the little toy. He thanked Bofur again and then took a card for the store. Perhaps he’d have to direct some of his nicer cousins here some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I am nostalgic for The Toy Shop in Concord, Massachusetts and fully endorse adults owning toys. 
> 
> I am far less nostalgic, though, about Massachusetts summers especially when I spent three of four of my college years in dormitories without any kind of climate control and once it gets hot and humid I become essentially useless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: The Water by Johnny Flynn feat. Laura Marling

By the time they left the toy store it was high noon and oppressively hot. Fili and Kili had taken sunglasses out of their packs but Bilbo had forgotten and was left to squint while Kili consulted his phone. “It’s half an hour’s walk to the pond from here,” he said, sounding less than thrilled. 

“It’s too hot for that!” Fili complained. It seemed their enthusiasm for a dip in a cool pond was staggered by the effort they would have to expend getting there. Making a split-second decision, he grabbed Kili’s hand and Bilbo’s wrist and started dragging them to the nearest café. “We’re getting lunch and then we’re going somewhere shady until it’s not miserable anymore!” 

“Aren’t we even going to look at the menu or anything?” Bilbo asked. He tried to dig his heels into the ground and get some traction. 

“No! Too hot!” Fili was bringing his height and weight to bear in emphasizing his opinion, dragging them down some steps and into a door. 

Once Bilbo’s vision cleared from transitioning to sun bleached brightness to the room’s shadier light, he could take in a long and narrow space divided up by picket fences and a few benches to separate the tables. The effect was of a spring garden, tempered by the blessings of indoor climate control. The whole wall had been scrawled in chalk with an elaborate menu, each dish outlined into its own cell on the wall. Bilbo’s eyes swam with the myriad of choices, unable to land on one bubble long enough to read it.

He was so caught up in staring at the wall that he didn’t notice that Fili and Kili had heeded the sign for dine-in guests to seat themselves until he heard them laughing. Putting on an appropriately sour face, Bilbo quickly followed suit and sat with them. He was relieved to see a much tidier paper menu.

“You could have _said_ something,” he said.

It was Kili who grinned, answering, “But you looked so confused. Like an old professor!”

Bilbo scrunched his face a little. Thirty was not _old_. In fact, he’d thought he’d made very good time completing his courses and dissertation. He started to say as much and then realized that they probably didn’t care. They were juniors both, many years away from having to consider dissertations if they were to do so at all.

Bilbo preferred, instead, to change the subject. “Do you know this place then?” 

Fili shook his head and Kili put on an exasperated expression. “He just dragged us into the nearest place he saw.”

Fili refused to be chastised. “And it’s nice, isn’t it? I have a good feeling about this place.”

“What you mean is, you’re hungry.”

Before arguments could erupt further, a portly waiter materialized at their table to distribute menus. His roundness did nothing to hinder his movement as he filled their water glasses and introduced himself as Bombur without explaining how someone came by such a name. “You’ll have to forgive us. Normally I’d be back there,” he indicated the take-away counter with a tip of the head. “But we’re a little short-staffed today so you have the dubious honor of being served by one of the owners.” 

Bilbo thought he and Kili must have shared a moment in wanting to swat the smug expression from Fili’s face. 

“This is your place then?” Fili asked, smiling to deflect his friends’ glares. 

Bombur nodded, looking pleased, “It is. We’re the fourth generation of the Cooper family to serve out of this location. I’ll let you look at the menu. Just flap a hand if you have any questions.” 

He seemed to spin out of the way like a top, tending to the rest of his tables.

“Lunch _and_ a show!” Fili said brightly. “So, Kee, what’s around here anyway besides the pond?” 

Kili considered, counting things off on his hands, “Well if you like writers and existentialists there’s some houses around. The cemetery’s cool and you can see where Thoreau’s at, plus all the other authors.” He tilted his head to Bilbo, “You like history, right?” Bilbo only had a chance to nod before Kili barreled on, “And it’s the closest thing. ‘Bout ten minutes I’d say, unless Fili decides he can’t take another step and falls to his knees in despair.” 

Fili looked like he was about to ask a question but Kili held up a hand, already anticipating it. “And yes, it’s shady. If I were a crueler man, Fee, I’d be asking if you were pining for the frozen steppes of Russia right now.” 

“Bullshit,” Fili said with a sharp nudge of the elbow. “It’s because you’ve run out of good jokes.”

Their server seemed to have a clairvoyance about when his tables were about to come to blows because suddenly Bombur was at their table again. “Ready to order or do you need a moment to get out of the half-nelson your friend has locked you in?” 

Kili held up a finger, indicating that yes he’d need a moment. Bilbo decided that the safest thing to do was to order a sandwich and act as if nothing at all was happening across from him.

At least the food was very good.

\---

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery was a sprawling, hilly expanse with a generous stretch of trees to cast shade over where they walked. Bilbo didn’t know why he was surprised to find that more than a few people were walking briskly along the paths, some with children in tow. Yes, certainly there were several acres of the buried dead, but on a day so hot and sunny the effect was peaceful and not haunting at all. 

Bilbo wandered a little ways up one of the hills to observe the ground while Fili and Kili walked along from grave to grave, heads bent in a conversation that seemed to belong to them alone. They stood very close to one another as if seeking protection from some kind of faraway enemy and it gave Bilbo a familiar, sad feeling. 

They lived in a strange and harsh world sometimes. One where life was as willing to take things away as give them freely and it was just as easy to walk among the graves of strangers as fallen families. The boys were so young and yet there was so much denied them. Wasn’t that the real reason they sought out adventures and companionship? 

Bilbo shook his head and followed the signs that pointed toward the Author’s Ridge. Just because he was in a cemetery there was no need to be so morbid. He had no right or reason to imagine their lives and motivations as if they were characters in a tragic story. 

“Just because you’re looking for their graves is no reason to indulge in existential rambling,” Bilbo told himself, leaning forward to push further up the steep and narrow path to the hilltop. 

As he reached the top, Bilbo could see a few fenced-in plots that marked the families that marked the Alcotts, Thoreaus, Emersons, and Hawthornes. In the dark shade, so high above the rest, Bilbo could chase away his silly thoughts and look at the graves and beyond.

This was a place of peace and rest, not some kind of haunted battleground cemetery. He told himself that sternly as he looked down at the graves. Despite the low fences that advised visitors not to trod over the graves, he could see visitors previous had done their best to leave gifts for the authors they admired. Thoreau and Emerson’s graves were marked with flowers and pinecones, Hawthorne’s with stones, and Alcott’s with pencils and a few notebooks. He smiled and looked for a stone to add when he heard voices and steps; Fili and Kili were about to join him.

Bilbo turned to greet them and startled. Standing a few yards away was that damnable specter again. The old man looked up from his contemplation of a grave to peer at him and then turn to look at the path where Fili and Kili approached. “Bilbo!” they called, looking at him through the ghost, wide-eyed and breathing hard. “Thought you’d run off or something!” 

Just as they were about to walk right through him, the old man turned to Bilbo, smiled, and faded away as always.

“No I was just up here. Sorry I thought you saw me go up.” 

“If you’re about set, we were thinking of heading up to the pond now is all,” Kili gestured vaguely in the direction they came from. “It’s not as hot.”

It took a second longer than it ought to for Bilbo to process and understand the request, his mind still on the ghost. That was the second time he’d appeared around Fili and Kili. Most of his life, Bilbo had simply tried to ignore the fact that the ghost acknowledged only him, but he had looked _right at_ the boys. Belatedly, he nodded, “That is what you kidnapped me for, isn’t it?”

Kili grinned, “That and we know Mondays the museum is closed and that you never do anything fun.”

“Hey–”

They were already turned and heading down the hill and Bilbo just sighed, hurrying after them. He had his own pleasures and fun, he would have them know.

\--

Even relatively cooler, the walk was a hot one and they were all of them very glad to see the pond come into view. It was crowded but not as bad as Bilbo had expected and it was easy enough to find a patch of sand to arrange the towels. The second they were rolled out, Fili and Kili threw off their shirts and were headed directly for the water, laughing as they raced and dodged other swimmers. Bilbo followed at a more sedate pace, enjoying the feel of the sand between his toes. 

With a grin, Kili nearly threw himself in the water, Fili half a second behind him. Before Fili could jump in, he froze where he stood, suddenly looking panicked. 

“Fee?” Kili asked, looking shaken himself. 

Bilbo was at their side, looking between them as Fili breathed shallowly and Kili gripped his shoulder. “I…” he seemed to be having difficulty grasping words and Bilbo went to the water, wetting his hands to press them on Fili’s forehead.

“He’s having a panic attack,” he said, uncertain that Kili wasn’t having one too. 

Fili shook his head, gasping, “No. I.” Finally he gained a little more control over himself. “I’m all right. Let me sit for a second. I’d just forgotten about how I almost drowned, ages ago, when I couldn’t swim...” he trailed off as if unsure of his own memory. 

Kili seemed to breathe easier, carefully watching him. “Still want to swim?” 

Fili nodded and was able to smile, as if recalling an old inside joke. “Just don’t stuff me in a barrel and roll me away, yeah?”

Kili laughed and swatted the back of his head. “This isn’t Dungeons and Dragons night. Just because I do it to your character doesn’t mean I’ll do it to you.” 

That prompted Fili to laugh and he seemed a little more himself for it. “I think I’m going to sit in the shallows for a minute.” He looked at Kili who stood and helped him to his feet. “Sorry we gave you a scare.”

Bilbo was puzzling over the barrel comment and why it nagged at something in his mind, but he lost the thought when Fili spoke. “No, I’m just glad you’re all right. Sitting down in the water sounds brilliant right now, anyway.” Thinking it would calm his own nerves as much as it would theirs, he walked a few feet into the water and sat down. Between the heat of the day and the previous tension, it was glorious just to sit down and take a deep breath. Fili slowly crept forward and joined him with Kili on the other side. 

“We came here to have fun and cool down,” Kili said, looking stubborn about the fun they would have. “We’ll be all right.”

Bilbo nodded, staring into the hazy distance. He felt inexplicably guilty about the mess and wishing he’d been able to help more. If only he’d been more careful with the barrels and put more thought into where they would wash up then none of this mess would have happened, even if the brothers had come out of the barrels relatively unharmed. 

Then he blinked and wondered at the thought. It didn’t make any more sense than that moment back in the cemetery and Bilbo lay back in the water. It would be just deep enough to submerge him where they sat and he closed his eyes and let the cool water wash over his face to clear his head. 

As he emerged he was surprised to see Fili and Kili had done the same. They didn’t seem afraid in the least anymore. Bilbo thought that was a far better sight. 

For a while he sat, occasionally wading back and forth while Fili and Kili raced and splashed at one another. Their energy seemed boundless and it was an hour at least before Kili remembered his ukelele and ran back to their towels with Fili behind him.

Even as he stayed seated in the water, Bilbo could hear them as they played and sang a nonsense song that sounded like it was about saucepans.

\---

Between all the long walks and then the swimming, it didn’t take long before the both of them were passed out on the train and Bilbo barely awake himself. Kili was leaning into Fili’s shoulder and, in his sleep, Fili’s arm had circled around him protectively. Once again, Bilbo had to think about how much they depended on one another. When one felt safe so did the other. 

He was only able to rouse them long enough to switch trains and was afraid that they might miss their stop because they wouldn’t wake up in time. Fortunately, Kili woke up and moved away a few stops before theirs and Fili followed suit. 

None of them spoke much as they walked back up to the apartments but the quiet was a companionable one, borne of a long day. Bilbo felt certain that he had made friends of his neighbors and was gladder of it than he thought he would be. 

Before going to bed that night, he tucked the toy thrush into his bag.

That night he dreamed that he was clinging to a barrel as he rushed down a river that, inexplicably, cut right through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. He was about to crash into Thoreau’s gravestone when a pair of strong arms lifted him out of he water. Then, for some reason, he was on a pony.

\---

Despite the odd dreams, Bilbo woke that morning feeling very good. 

Collecting his things, he biked right to the museum an hour early seeing no reason to wait when he was so excited to return to his maps. First though, he headed toward his office to install the thrush next to his computer monitor, only to find the accession folder on his desk and thicker than ever with several new notes that hadn’t been there when he’d left work.

Confused, Bilbo sat down and flipped through them. In a blocky, tight handwriting, someone else had pointed out possible errors in all of the notes, mostly at Bilbo’s. 

“Who on earth did all of this?” Bilbo asked the empty office while his computer booted up. Scowling, he found that he had several new messages clogging up his inbox. All of them were from the same sender. 

The first one, at least, was polite. Bilbo could see that it was marked to a time when he would have already been working and nowhere near his computer. 

_Mr. Baggins,_

_I will be arriving Sunday afternoon and would like to get to work on the map collection. I will be bringing several other samples that have already been catalogued._

_I would like to meet with you for lunch so that we may discuss the plan._

_–Thorin Oakenshield._

The next one was marked as having been sent shortly after Mr. Thorin’s projected arrival.

_Mr. Baggins,_

_I have just arrived in Boston and hope, again, to discuss the project soon._

_–Thorin Oakenshield_

_Sent from my iPhone_

Well he didn’t like to wait around did he? Bilbo read through the next few e-mails, each of them becoming more terse than the last until he got to the one sent last night.

_Since you have not answered any of my messages_

And why should he have to? Bilbo thought sourly. The museum was closed Mondays and all of those e-mails had either been sent when Bilbo would have been in the workroom or not at the building at all. None of them answered work mail when out of the office as an unspoken policy but it seemed Mr. Oakenshield wasn’t aware.

Bilbo continued to read. 

_I have taken the liberty of going through the accession folder that Mr. Fundinsson had sent to my lodgings. You will find all of my corrections to your notes, as well as the previous ones.  
We can meet before looking at the pieces._

Bilbo frowned deeply and slammed the folder closed, surprised at his own irritation. The mysterious Mr. Oakenshield had left notes on the most trivial matters, seeming to ignore the question marks Bilbo had added, as well as the clear indications that he planned to return to with greater research. 

He hadn’t even met the man yet and Bilbo was already very certain that his shared research with this man would be its own special trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant they go to is based on a real one that I've been to in Concord. It had delicious Avocado BLTs. Author's Ridge is probably one of my favorite quiet places in the world. Basically, I miss Concord. 
> 
> I've added suggested songs to the first two chapters as well, because I'm obsessive like that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: Cruel by Tori Amos and You Will Be My Ain True Love by Alison Krauss.

Coming in an hour early had changed from an advance start to a slow, creeping hell as Bilbo looked over Mr. Oakenshield’s increasingly tetchy notes. If Bilbo was already this annoyed with him just from his handwritten notes, he was going to have to remove anything heavy or sharp from his workspace lest he be tempted to throw them at him.

The closer the hour came to when the rest of the staff would arrive, the more agitatedly he flipped through the folder. In his mind, Bilbo kept going over rebuttals to the notes, some of them more petulant than others. Really, the reason he _hadn’t_ made any notes on one file was because he’d already known it was a reproduction and simply not bothered to waste more time on it. Wasn’t it obvious?

Bilbo drummed his fingers along his desk. He got up and made coffee and then put it down, forgetting to drink it.

This was not at all how he’d wanted his morning to go and now here he was, shuffling around like a nervous student. 

His research was _sound_ , damn it. He’d hardly slept through his doctorate and he certainly didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. 

It was all the more frustrating when Ori and Balin came in with a stranger following after them. If there had been any mercy in the world, Thorin Oakenshield’s appearance would have matched his personality but no. Instead, he was a tall man with handsomely severe features and keen eyes. The sharpness of his face was emphasized by the way he’d trimmed his sideburns into points. He was offensively good-looking and well dressed and Bilbo was so annoyed that it put him off the cinnamon roll he was going to eat. 

“Ah, Bilbo, I’m glad you’re in,” Balin said. He had such a blithe and open smile that Bilbo was certain that Balin could see the angry sparks he was shooting. “This is Mr. Oakenshield. He’s accompanied some of the loan pieces for the exhibit and will be providing his knowledge and assistance.” 

Bilbo smoothed his shirt and held out a hand, hoping his smile looked natural, “Yes. I was just going over his notes as you came in.” 

“Good. Then we can get to correcting all the errors even faster.” Thorin took Bilbo’s hand cursorily and dropped it quickly. “I have a few pieces that I have reason to believe may relate directly to the contents of your collection.”

“Right. Of course,” Bilbo said tersely. “I saw that you had a _great deal_ of input.” 

Mr. Oakenshield didn’t bother with anymore pleasantries. “I have the accessions files for the loan pieces ready. Balin, if you’ll show me to the workroom I’ll get started on confirming if any pieces match up.” He didn’t so much as nod at Bilbo before setting a folder down on Balin’s desk and then going back out into the hall.

Ori, who had watched the whole conversation silently, finally spoke up once they were out of earshot. “Well. At least we’ll save on air conditioning from how frigid he is.” 

Bilbo sighed and rubbed the heal of his hand into his forehead, massaging at a swiftly appearing headache. “He does seem a rather bullheaded type.” Always had been, convinced that he’d been endorsed by Mahal himself. Or. Well. 

Another sigh and Bilbo went to look at the folder Thorin had left. “I don’t know what I was expecting.” 

At least Thorin’s folder had notes that were far easier to read.

\---

Bilbo wasn’t one to dawdle, but today was a special exception. He read over Thorin’s notes near to the point of memorization, assuring himself that it was out of the need to understand them thoroughly. Luckily, he didn’t have to try and convince anyone but himself.

By the time he went to his workroom, Thorin had already laid out a few pieces. “I was wondering if you’d gotten lost.”

“I was familiarizing myself with your notes,” Bilbo replied quite stiffly. “Your side of the exhibition has been well-documented. Better than the collection I’m dealing with now.” 

If Thorin had gotten Bilbo’s point, he didn’t acknowledge it. “There’s reason to believe that a few pieces may directly correspond to some of yours. Some of the letters.”

“Yes, I saw in your notes.” Bilbo laid the folder back down on the table. “Unfortunately, we’ll need to do some restoration on the pieces to get a better idea. The owner of this collection only prized the flashy, showy maps. Including the obvious fake.” 

“Typical,” Thorin said. “I hope you’re up to it because I can already see what a mess you have.”

Well it was a good thing he hadn’t been counting on Thorin for encouragement. Instead, Bilbo pulled out the tattered letter map he’d been anticipating having to spend time on before. 

“That was one of the pieces.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I read your notes.” What did Thorin think he’d been doing the whole time? Eating croissants? Never mind that. From what little he already knew of the man, that was quite likely exactly what Thorin thought of him. 

Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for this exhibition to be over and it wasn’t even ready to hang.

“According to your notes, you’ve come to the conclusion on this map based on... _what_ evidence?” Thorin was pointing out yet another piece. 

Bilbo gritted his teeth, looking down at the map in question. “If you had read my notes–”

“Yes and they were vague at best on the topic of provenance.”

“Because I planned to go back and solidify it with more _research_!” Bilbo snapped. “And my current conclusions are based in the spelling and naming conventions of parts of Africa then unsettled by the Europeans. If you were to crosscheck it with historical primary sources, you would see they corroborate.”

“Well when you put it so confidently, why do you still have question marks?”

“Because I haven’t yet been able to check with said primary sources.” 

Thorin gave him a look that could wither plants and Bilbo only wished he could return it in equal force. “If you have reasonable basis then why waste time verifying everything down to the exact detail when we still have several maps that have much shakier dating?” 

“And what if finishing one piece in exacting detail is exactly what we need to identify another one?” Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well how will we know if we barely have any information to go off, will we?”

Bilbo resisted the urge to throw up his hands, back out of the room, and let Ori teach him lithography. He didn’t have a talented bone in his body and that still held more appeal to him than spending the remaining workday with Thorin Oakenshield. It was _always_ like this! Just because he was in charge made him practically infallible, never mind that he was so prone to blinding himself by his own stubbornness and pride.

Bilbo’s stomach clenched like it meant to implode from sheer frustration. 

The first time around had been trying enough, thank you. Bilbo had not come here to deal with yet another stubborn–

“Well?” Thorin’s voice cut in sharply.

“Well _what?_ ” Bilbo asked. “I’m surveying the less-documented pieces like you just said we should.”

“And I was trying to tell you to give me that map. The tatty one with the faded lines.”

“Yes could you go in a little more detail? We have a large collection here and many of them are tatty with faded lines.” 

Thorin looked skyward as if asking for patience. “The one right in front of you. _Please_.”

Right. The letter map. Bilbo carefully passed it over the table, certain that the tension between his eyes would blossom into a migraine before the day was out.

“We have here–as you may have seen in my accessions folder–a letter that has a specific mention of an included, hand-drawn map. I hope you can see what I’m implying.” 

Bilbo’s fists clenched under the table and he tried to breathe slowly out his nose. “Yes, I am fully aware that you are theorizing that the map I have corresponds to your collection’s letter. Even _if_ that would be near-miraculous.” He did have _some_ critical thinking skills after all, despite what Thorin seemed to think. 

“This piece should be given special attention then.”

“Yes. I know.” Bilbo bit down. Did Balin really expect them to get through the next two months with both alive? It hadn’t even been an hour and Bilbo was already fantasizing about taking out one or both of Thorin’s kneecaps with a t-square.

\---

Bilbo had been hoping that the next day would be better and was sorely disappointed when his alarm went off. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so poorly in his life. Trying to stand up left the room spinning and attempting to drink a cup of tea somehow left him with worse nausea than he’d started with. 

Barely able to cross a room, much less get to work _and_ tolerate anything coming out of Thorin’s mouth, Bilbo was forced to pick up the phone and make a call. 

After only a moment, he heard Balin’s voice saying, “Hello?”

“Hello, yes. It’s Bilbo and I’m really sorry to put you in a bind like this,” Bilbo rushed out. “But I’ve woken up incredibly sick and I’m so, so sorry about this but I just don’t know if I can come in.” 

Balin’s long pause made him nervous and Bilbo quickly added, “I mean, if you really think I’ll be needed, I can try again and make it a little late. I don’t want to drag anyone else’s research down just because of a stomach bug–” 

“No, no. I understand perfectly,” Balin said kindly. “You can take a sick day. Thorin’s currently doing restoration prep so he should be all right on his own. I’ll give him your number just in case something comes up.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, hoping that the generally ill sound of his voice covered the sudden contempt that he felt. “I doubt he’ll require much input from me today.” And even if he did, Bilbo had no doubt that Thorin would rather stir up an army and go to battle rather than asking for any help.

So typical of him. 

Forcing himself to the bathroom, Bilbo was able to find his thermometer and determine that he, at least, didn’t have to add fever to his list of complaints. Thank goodness for small favors, he thought, crawling into bed. 

When he could fall asleep, Bilbo kept dreaming all too realistically of spiders and darkness and a deep voice rather like Thorin’s. Or maybe it only sounded like Thorin because it was constantly shouting and being rude. He was about ready to shove a barrel over his head to call a halt to the yelling…

He was in the middle of taunting a large spider that wore stag horns when he jolted awake again, stomach churning. 

“Blasted Mirkwood,” he mumbled before turning over into a new position and closing his eyes. Maybe if he just took a few deep breaths…

This time he dreamed that he had gone somewhere with friends he didn’t actually like that much. For some reason, they’d all gone out to a salad bar even though everyone kept complaining and asking for bacon. Every time Bilbo tried to explain that they were at a _salad bar_ , Ori just kept asking for chips.

The more Bilbo dwelt on yesterday, the sicker he felt. It was as if his whole body was rejecting the unpleasant man. 

By noon, at least, he felt better enough to go to his kitchen and listen to Fili and Kili play. They always surprised him how wrapped up in one another they were when the music played. He couldn’t see their faces but he knew, without a doubt, that they were looking right into each other. 

Only, when he started paying attention to the words they were singing, Bilbo felt oddly cold inside. It was like mourning for people he’d only just remembered had died but without being able to recall their faces or _how_ they had passed away. All he knew was that the feeling of sickness was fading out of him to be replaced with a hollow loss. 

“ _The field is cut and bleeds to red, the cannonballs fly round my head. The infirmary man may count me dead when I've gone to find my ain true love…_ ”

Yes. They would know about death on the battlefield wouldn’t they? Back to back determined to have the other live if he were to fall. It was a fool’s errand as they followed their king out into battle, loyal to a fault. 

Yet another thing to blame on him, Bilbo thought bitterly. So blinded by his own stubbornness that he was willing to lead his remaining kin into slaughter, both of them barely out of boyhood and doomed never to leave it. 

All for riches and pride. 

An image of his young neighbors rose up before his eyes. They were bearded, both with long hair, and lying in the mud with closed eyes and bloody wounds. 

Bilbo swallowed tightly and closed his window to block out the mournful tune. Not again. Those lads shouldn’t have had to suffer so.

It was dizzying and Bilbo felt his whole world tip, turning into circular rooms in the nighttime. Without a doubt, he needed to get himself back into bed before he drove himself unconscious. 

As he slept Bilbo was spared more dreams but woke up again later, still feeling a shade of his earlier melancholy. It was as if he’d been to a funeral a day or two before; he’d let go of something but the pangs of grief still ghosted at him. 

The migraine was gone, at least, and Bilbo’s stomach had finally settled long enough to eat something until he felt steadier–grounded in this reality rather than whatever had eaten up his dreams earlier.

A glance at the clock told him the museum would have closed by now and Bilbo fussed about missing a whole day. Balin had been kind about it but that had still been a day’s worth of work lost. And, a nasty part added, Thorin would certainly hold his absence over Bilbo’s head. Certainly, Mr. Thorin Oakenshield would never be brought down by something as petty as a stomach flu. 

Bilbo huffed and made himself another sandwich.

Why, he had half a mind to just go to the museum now and restore the letter map himself. Surely, _that_ would prove his capabilities and show Thorin that he was more than just some glorified assistant. They were colleagues. 

And, dammit, Bilbo was going to prove it. 

He dressed and got down to his bicycle quickly, before he could talk himself out of going. 

\---

The workroom was eerily still. Not quiet, it was always quiet. Now his familiar space just felt like a tomb without anyone else to come by. Still, he’d waved his badge and been allowed back to his own work by security. Bilbo had every right to be here and he was going to work.  
Thorin hadn’t yet changed any of the maps’ organization and Bilbo located the map and letter easily. Carefully setting them both down, Bilbo looked at the pieces of paper before him. They certainly looked like the same size and type of paper, same wear and ink. 

The text of the letter made it only seem all the more likely.

_My dear Annie,_

_I cannot say that the seafaring life is for me. Constantly I miss our feather bed and the books you read our son but at least it is only part of the year and I am paid well for my pains._

_I have included a map of our route, which I copied down from our own routes aboard the ship. As you can see, we will be spending a great deal of time out in open water but I hope to put my feet upon the land soon._

_Kiss our boy on the forehead. I hope I will see him very soon._

_Love,  
Your Johnny._

Bilbo sighed a little. Despite being such a short note, it stirred something in him. He could understand the longing for the comforts of home but he wondered if this Johnny had ever appreciated the adventure or if it had only ever been an effort to earn more money so that he could settle down sooner. 

Maybe he would find more of the story in the other letters Thorin kept. 

In the meantime, he had his work cut out for him with the accompanying map.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure the entirety of this fic can be attributed to an overly large collection of "sad, haunting music."
> 
> So, once again, as grounded in a real place as this is, I've taken a lot of artistic license with the workings and requirements of being in a museum environment. Sorry about that.
> 
> Coming soon...more Thorin being a grumpy jerk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: The Battle of Who Could Care Less by Ben Folds Five

It was only a scant few hours between leaving the museum and returning the next morning but when Bilbo returned it was deadly quiet in the office. Ori was behind Balin’s desk, editing some photographs on his laptop, and staring at Bilbo with an expression that fell between terror and admiration. 

“Mr. Oakenshield hasn’t stopped glowering at your door since he came in,” Ori explained. His expression silently begged for an explanation; clearly it had been the mystery of the morning. 

Bilbo put on a casual expression and pretended to be as confused as Ori was himself. “With him, I can only assume one of a thousand things I have done wrong between the last time we spoke and now,” he said primly. 

Ori raised an eyebrow at Bilbo, who replied with a bland look, and then turned right back to his computer. “I think I’ll stay in the lithographs. It seems safer. And I’m saying that _after_ I’ve gotten a concussion from the press.”

“How did you–” Bilbo shook his head, deciding he’d rather not know this early in the morning. Instead, he proceeded to the workroom where a glowering Thorin was waiting.

Pretending to take no notice of his expression, Bilbo set about getting the folios ready. “Good morning.” 

Thorin opened the folder that contained the newly-restored map. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Well,” Bilbo said, craning his neck to look over his handiwork. “It appears to be a map. A very well restored one too.” 

“So it would appear.” Thorin’s glare could probably force coal into diamonds through ferocity alone. “Are you always in the habit of doing whatever you will and abandoning your colleagues?” 

Bilbo stiffened, frowning back at Thorin. “I don’t know. Are you often in the habit of throwing yourself completely into your own research and ignoring perfectly good input from yours?” 

Why always this argument? Always this stubbornness, ready to throw reason aside in hopes of getting in the last word. It seemed to never end. 

Thorin’s fist tightened on the edge of the table and Bilbo’s mind had the sudden, fleeting impression that he was about to be thrown down a flight of stairs. 

“A-And, I’ll have you know,” Bilbo added, ignoring the way his stomach twisted painfully. “That I restored it with your notes at my side. I don’t just blunder into such delicate situations without putting _some_ consideration in for the thoughts of others. Which is more than I can say you’ve ever done!” 

It was that cursed artifact all over again. That was always what such things boiled down to. Thorin just had to gather every bit of it into his hands, never sharing a shred of credit or reward with anyone that he deemed to be an “outsider.” 

“You don’t know _anything_ about the work I’ve done! You half–You half-wit!” Thorin’s voice wasn’t raised, but he seemed to roar out the words nonetheless, not letting a stumble of the tongue interrupt his fury. 

“Oh stop! Take a look at the map for yourself and tell me if a single _jot_ of my restoration ignores the conclusions we both drew!” Bilbo grabbed the file and held it open. “Tell me! Is a single thing wrong?” 

“You went behind my back, just as you’ve always done. You’ve always preferred to save your own hide rather than do any proper work!” 

“And _you’d_ rather risk a mountain rather than have a single stone chipped off the edge. It’s all you can ever do, just keeping things to yourself for no good reason! The building could be on fire and you’d rather everything burned rather than giving up an inch.” 

Despite the intensified glare from Thorin, Bilbo refused to back down when he knew he was right, always had been right, and had been acting for the good of the project. If only Thorin could look past his own ego to see that. 

“You have no idea how much time I’ve spent with this project! I’ve been curating this collection for two years, trying to salvage near-scraps that you couldn’t even read.” 

“As if you’d have given anyone else a chance to try,” Bilbo said dismissively. 

“And as if you’ve ever had to work! You’ve only ever had the easy jobs and the easy life. You know nothing of trying to survive or overcoming any _real_ challenges!” Thorin clenched a fist once more. He looked like he was about to slam it on the table before bringing the heel of it to his forehead instead. Bilbo resisted the urge to sympathize; his own head was pounding like every thought and memory in his brain was trying to escape at once. 

“It’s all trinkets and pride with you, Thorin Oakenshield. So be it. Enjoy being king of an empty mountain while I _try_ to do some real work. Which I am, in fact, very used to.” 

Thorin’s eyes closed and then he spun out of the room. The door slammed closed before Bilbo could chastise him for running out in the middle of a conversation. 

Sighing, Bilbo took a seat and waited for the headache to subside before looking down at the poor map that had caused the whole mess. It seemed that Thorin had made a few notes prior to exploding from rage. 

To his surprise, the map met Thorin’s approval. He had recorded the “expertly done” restoration as a success that corroborated with all of their information. Well, that was something at least.

Even if Thorin had been certain to follow up all of his praise with a large note in red ink. 

_This restoration was done independently, without regard to the collaborative nature of the project._

Bilbo snorted; Thorin was the last person who had any right to complain about the nature of a collaboration. 

Argument or no, there was still work that could be accomplished. Their grudging agreement of the contents of the map allowed him to write up several drafts for the informational placards that would accompany the exhibit. Charitably, Bilbo left his drafts on top of the folder, festooned with a bright sticky note that requested Thorin’s input.

When he returned from lunch, the notes were thumbed through with several comments made in the same red ink. The jagged handwriting made every correction an accusation.

The source of the writing, however, was nowhere to be seen. As relieved as Bilbo was, he knew that they could only accomplish so much through this extended game of telephone and so he resigned himself to hunting out his unwilling collaborator. 

For such a tall, broad man, Thorin made himself very difficult to find if the occasion called for it. He wasn’t in any of the other workrooms and Ori could only offer a shrug as to his whereabouts.

“He was taking a smoke break, last I saw, but I have no idea where he’s gone since then,” Ori explained. Once again, he fixed that half-awed look on Bilbo, “You know how to get the worst of his temper without even trying.”

“It’s not _my_ fault he’s so stubborn and rude,” Bilbo said. It was quite unfair to accuse him of getting under Thorin’s skin; the man looked apt to react that way to anything that went contrary to his idea of things. 

“He was very polite yesterday. Asked me all about the work I was doing and had a long chat with Balin. Ended up exploring the maritime hall for most of the afternoon since he said he couldn’t complete anything without you.” He made it sound like a simple report of the previous day’s activity, rather than an attempt at mediation. 

“It’s hard to imagine him being so patient.” 

“And it’s hard–” Ori paused and shook his head. “Actually it’s not so hard to imagine you sneaking around a bit to make a point. Anyway, if you ask me, once you both get over this mess you’ll work together fine.”

“That is, if he doesn’t throw me over a cliff just from frustration alone.”

Ori laughed a little and shook his head and then ducked back down to the journal he was keeping of his internship. “Oh I don’t think he’d do that. Museum curators don’t have diplomatic immunity, you know.”

Bilbo snorted, “Or diplomacy.” 

Ori shrugged, closing up his book. It was a nice, leather-bound journal that made Bilbo smile just a little. Whatever he was writing in there, the look of it gave Ori something of a chronicler’s air. He was the sort of person who didn’t love slugging it out in the field, for all his claims of battle-readiness. No, Bilbo thought, he’d always been the archivist, the one who’d make sure their story was preserved for ages. 

“Don’t you get cold down here?” Bilbo asked, not liking the way his mind was so prone to wandering lately. He always wore a heavy sweater in the climate-control but Ori hardly seemed to mind. 

“A bit, but I’ve got a side-project that’ll help.” Ori grinned sheepishly and dug into his side-bag to produce a sheet of yarn, stabbed through with two crochet hooks. 

Bilbo laughed his surprise and nodded, “A cardigan and some mittens, I think.” 

“Mittens first, and then we’ll see how long my patience holds out.”

Bilbo was about to make some new comment but stopped when he heard heavy footsteps outside in the hall. He’d recognize that loud tread anywhere. Sometimes the sound of their feet was the only way to identify who was who when they’d tramped through the forest. 

Thorin stood in the doorway, regarding Bilbo with an unreadable expression. “I’ve reviewed your drafts, Mr. Baggins.”

“And?” 

“I have some questions, if you will return to our workroom.” It barely counted as a request. At least there were only a couple more hours to the day. Hopefully, Thorin managed to keep his grumbling to a minimum; Bilbo didn’t think he had the energy for another headache in him. 

Spread across their table, Thorin was surveying the papers Bilbo had left. “You’re creating a narrative, I see.” 

“It seemed fitting.” 

“It seems strong, but premature,” Thorin said. “I’d rather we solidify a few more details of the other pieces before we write a story to ourselves and try to force the maps to fit our ideas.” 

“Well I _had_ been trying to say we should do more definitive research.” 

“I am quite aware of your opinions.” It was said flatly, treading the line between avoiding and inviting yet another fight. “And now that we have general and solid notes for the majority of the pieces, we _can_ worry about the details.” 

Bilbo thought he was just about ready to slam a barrel over Thorin’s head. After all this roundabout stubbornness, he was actually saying that Bilbo had doing things correctly? Surely, he’d suffered other such backhanded compliments but it was hard to recall them.

“Yes, well. I’d been trying to say.” Bilbo stacked the drafts neatly and put them on a desk, weighed down by an ugly souvenir cauldron that could have come from any number of the shops in the area. Judging by the residue, Balin had once kept teabags in it. 

“And now it’s been said,” Thorin was looking at another map that was in dire need of restoration. “I believe this is actually a very valuable piece. Overlooked by your collector, sadly, but it can be brought into better condition.” 

“Are the supplies where I left them?”

Thorin nodded, holding the tattered map next to the one Bilbo had restored. “How on earth did you complete this so quickly?” 

Bilbo shrugged, “Spite.” He headed into the supply closet before Thorin could follow up with some other waspish remark.

\---

It felt like the first productive day they’d had in ages. Between his late-night endeavors with the map and the work completed today, he was more than ready to collapse into bed right then and there, even if it meant missing supper. The heat almost made preparing a meal unappealing. 

Mentally debating the merits of cooking or not, Bilbo nearly walked into the strange car that was parked in front of his building. The little blue hatchback had seen better days and the inside was stuffed with a surprising array of boxes and what appeared to be the heater for a slow-cooker. 

Did Fili and Kili have guests for dinner? Bilbo hoped they didn’t get too loud. Who knew what counted as a rollicking good time with two folk musicians? 

“Bilbo! There you are!” Kili stuck his head out the door, waving brightly. “We’d been waiting for you to get home! Come in. We’re having dinner with Bofur and Bombur! You remember? From Concord?”

Bilbo looked at Kili with raised eyebrows, wondering how this had even come about. He was halfway to a polite rejection when Kili grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him in the door. “He’s here!” 

For only three people, Fili, Bofur, and Bombur could put up quite the rousing cheer. “Wonderful!” Bofur declared. Looking pleased, he elbowed Bombur into looking up from the corn he was shucking. “Our dinner company is complete. Sit down with us. Bombur’s made a gazpacho.” 

A cold soup _did_ sound very nice right about now, Bilbo had to admit. Especially if he wasn’t the one making it. 

“I can’t stay long,” he ventured. “I’ve got a great deal of work ahead tomorrow.” 

Fili pushed a cold beer into Bilbo’s hand, “Oh don’t worry so much. We won’t keep you past your bedtime. We just thought it’d be rude not to invite you, what with being friends and neighbors. Come on! Have a drink then.” 

Considering the beliefs Bilbo had held about college students (even when he was one himself), they’d made a surprisingly thoughtful choice of brew and Bilbo found it more than welcome on this balmy evening. 

“I see you made quite an impression in Concord then,” Bilbo said, glancing in their guests’ direction. 

“It was the ukelele and the fiddle,” Bofur explained. Cheerfully, he opened a case at his side to reveal a few tin whistles and what looked like a hand-carved flute. His hand hovered over the contents before selecting the one he’d shown them in his toy store. “I’ve played around a bit with Bombur here, but with the four of us it’ll be a proper quartet of...some variety. Whatever two strings, a flute, and some drums add up to.” 

A headache was Bilbo’s personal opinion, but it seemed hardly right to say that when they were all in such a good mood. And something _did_ smell very good in the kitchen. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? 

“So what’s for supper then?” 

“Pulled pork and corn,” Bombur said. “It seemed easier to bring the food over.” He shucked another ear. This one didn’t go into the pot. Instead, Bombur hefted himself to his feet and walked across the room to a high cage with multiple ledges inside. On one of the ledges, four rats were huddled together in a pile, seemingly asleep until Bombur pulled open the hatch to slide the corn onto a higher platform. 

Bilbo would have thought that a chef wouldn’t be any kind of friend to rats. Across the room it was easy to see the twinkle in Bombur’s eyes as the rats all pulled themselves up and stationed themselves at different sections of the ear to eat. 

“There they are,” Kili said, pulling Bilbo over for an undesired closer look. “Myrtle, Minty, Molly, and Daisy! They won’t be joining us for supper though.”

Thank goodness for small favors, Bilbo thought. 

As soon as it was polite, he moved back to the couch where Bofur sat. He’d taken out a thin penny whistle and was playing a lively tune while Fili tuned his violin. He was half-singing, half-humming along with Bofur’s tune. “Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tân…” 

Once the music started, it never really came to a complete stop. There were lulls, like when someone needed another beer or when Bombur brought out a crock full of delicious-smelling pulled pork and bread that must have been baked by hand, but never a full stop. When Fili was eating, Kili was plucking his guitar or Bombur was absently drumming out a rhythm on the table. 

After a second beer, even Bilbo was willing to join in on a chorus of the silly saucepan song, despite not knowing a lick of Welsh. Good beer made him very good at learning to play along.

By his second or third sandwich, Bilbo forgot he had ever been tired or unhappy. It was just like sitting around a campfire, where everything almost felt like home no matter how desolate the situation, if only because of the company. Now in much more comfortable settings, he was with friends of an unexpected sort who were striking up a rousing tune and feeding him a good meal. There were far worse ways to forget a terrible workday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I've been traveling. This was written on a plane to Oregon after being awake for vastly too many hours.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: Radioactive by Pentatonix feat. Lindsey Stirling

Buoyed by the good moods his neighbors could induce, no matter how bad of a day, Bilbo found himself having a much easier time. Even when Thorin was at his worst, it was never bad enough to bring on the stress headaches he’d experienced before.

Not that he’d even been really all that terrible, which was a surprise in itself. Ever since their terrible argument, something in Thorin seemed to have clicked. He was finally, grudgingly, accepting some of Bilbo’s ideas. 

During his visits with Ori, his young friend seemed to be continually more amused by the cordially indifferent way in which they had chosen to function. 

Balin just seemed pleased to have some quiet among his newest curators. 

On one of the quieter mornings, Bilbo came in to an unusual sight. Balin was at his desk but he had pulled his chair right to the edge so that he could sit at the corner with Thorin. Both of them held steaming mugs of tea–freshly steeped, judging by the teapot that sat in a cozy on Balin’s desk. Between sips, Balin was chatting on in a friendly way and Thorin seemed to not only be listening, but was _smiling_ as he did so. 

Used to Thorin’s glares and blank expressions, it surprised Bilbo to see that Thorin’s smile was shockingly brilliant. It made his craggy face light up as he sat there, totally at ease as if Balin had been friends for a lifetime. 

Lost in his contemplation, Bilbo didn’t realize how long he’d been standing there until Balin looked up and waved him over. “Good morning!” 

“Yes, good morning,” Bilbo replied, feeling more than a little off-guard. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Balin smiled and gestured to the free chair by his desk. “Nonsense. You’re both early so you may as well sit and have a cup of tea as well.”

It was one thing to get by with Thorin for the sake of academia. It was another to sit and share a cup of tea and pretend that they were friendly, as Balin seemed to presume of them. 

Perhaps if he just drank his tea very slowly it would prevent him from saying anything rude. 

“What sort of tea is that?” Bilbo asked after he’d been standing there in uncomfortable contemplation for a moment longer than was acceptable. 

“Darjeeling, brewed from loose leaves. Improves the quality of the tea, I think.” 

Thorin smiled again and spoke more to Balin than Bilbo when he said, “It’s the first good cup of tea I’ve had this whole trip.” Had Bilbo never noticed the angle of Thorin’s jaw before? It did make for a very distinguished profile. 

“Surely we’re not so bad?” Bilbo asked, an eyebrow raised. “It’s only in Boston that we drink it straight out of the harbor.” 

Thorin’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I thought it was in poor taste for such things to be discussed here. If I say the wrong thing, will I end up in the Boston Harbor myself?”

Once again, Bilbo couldn’t help imagining Thorin stuffed in a barrel. This time, his mental image was of Thorin careening down into the harbor with several bags of tea raining down after him. He took a sip of tea to hide his smile as Balin shook his head. “We have a harbor that’s much closer. I don’t fancy going on the Masspike when we could just pop you in a barrel and roll eastward.” 

Bilbo choked. When had he said anything about that out loud? Surely he hadn’t just said it and not realized? He couldn’t have.

It must have just been a funny coincidence. How else could he explain it? 

“So long as it’s not inconvenient then,” Thorin replied in a perfect deadpan. 

Bilbo was too lost in thought to respond. He spent the rest of his tea with his mind fuzzed, as if someone had knocked loose all the cobwebs and dust from the ceiling of his brain and now they coated every single thought he had. 

“I’ve…” He swallowed tightly, shoving away a sudden nervous tone. “I’m finished with my cup so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get started downstairs while you finish. Balin? Thank you.”

Balin nodded and gave him a smile, “Any time lad. And I do mean that.”

Well of course he did. Of the whole lot, Balin had always been the most polite. He’d also been the only one who’d come and visited…

Visited when? 

Bilbo shook his head very quickly to clear it and began to assemble his work for the day. The show would need to be installed soon. With the majority of the research squared away, he had to move on to how it would all lay in the gallery. 

“I think there should be placards next to the letter,” Thorin said as he entered the room. His tone was brisk and calm as ever. The easy, smiling man had been left upstairs it seemed.

But Bilbo couldn’t argue with the suggestion. “It’s just as well. I can read most of the handwriting, but that’s only because I’ve been staring at it for hours. Thrilling as it would be to imagine a museum-goer actually standing there for hours trying to puzzle something out, it would cause a horrible jam in the flow of the gallery.” 

Thorin nodded, “Precisely.” If Bilbo squinted, the quirk of Thorin’s mouth might even have been something like a smile.

It seemed that they’d found their middle ground, acting with just enough restraint to tongue and temper that the work could be accomplished. Most of the time, that same work kept the restrained silence from being miserably boring, even when they were reduced to the minutiae. Though as Thorin seemed to become increasingly impatient with such minutiae, Bilbo worried that the whole thing would just collapse.

Just when he feared one or both of them would explode, Thorin put his work down to announce, “I am taking lunch and going for a walk.”

“But we’re almost done!” 

“And I am about to go mad from withertos and wherefores,” he countered. “I’ve had quite enough for now. If I stare at this any longer I’m going to make a mistake.” 

“Well when you put it that way,” Bilbo replied dryly. “You’ve never made your best decisions when you were in a temper.” Goodness knew he’d born the brunt of it too many times. 

“Don’t speak to me as if you’ve known me all your life. It–” Thorin shook his head. “This argument is cutting into my walk.” 

He practically spun out of the room and Bilbo followed, feeling terribly uncertain about what was going on. “Do you even know your way around town?” 

“I’ve been living here for close to a month. I should hope so.” It was a fair point, though Bilbo could make a strong argument against Thorin’s directional sense when left to his own devices. ‘If you are so concerned for my well-being then come with me.” 

“I’m surprised you could tolerate me for so long.” Even as he said it, Bilbo was neatly sorting out the remainder of his work on the table. 

Thorin smirked more than smiled as he walked out the door. “Better the devil you know.”

Despite the unflattering comparison, Bilbo did follow him out. If Thorin got lost, it would be a whole day’s work wasted. He just knew it.

The August heat was stifling but Thorin made no comment and so Bilbo chose to act as if it didn’t bother him either. 

“I’m not sure what I make of the other museums here,” Thorin said, walking down the street with Bilbo. “Half of it seems to pity the accused while the other half tries to actively sell evil witches and ghost stories. Either way it capitalizes rather determinedly on an ignominious history.” 

“‘Ignominious,’” Bilbo repeated. “How very Hawthorne of you.” 

“As I understand it, he had much to say on the topic.” 

“Several books and stories’ worth,” Bilbo said, though he was distracted by a cart set up with t-shirts bearing all kinds of slogans, including a list of the victims of the witch trials. 

“It seems a strange legacy.”

“But a profitable one, sadly. I’ll take my work at the Peabody-Essex myself. Fewer ghosts, in my opinion.” 

Thorin nodded, though he was looking off into the distance as if he searched for something. “Hard to say.” He turned back to the town center, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to contemplate such a topic either way. 

It was just as well; Bilbo’s watch told him that the hour they’d designated for lunch was almost over and he hadn’t even had anything to eat yet. “We ought to head back anyway.” 

As they walked back, Bilbo found himself separated from Thorin by a sea of children under ten, all of them clothed in fluorescent yellow shirts for the Carlton Summer Camp for the Deaf and Hearing-Impaired. At the front of the group were two instructors while teenagers milled through to keep the children from wandering off. Both of them were signing, though only the bespectacled counselor with obvious hearing aids spoke. His companion only signed, but it was clear they’d given this tour many times before from the way their signing was nearly in sync. 

The children were all focused raptly on their instructors, some of them signing questions or glancing to their other counselors who also signed to the children. 

“It’s amazing,” Bilbo said. “They’re no different from any other summer camp group, save for being a lot quieter.” 

“Only because we don’t speak their language,” Thorin observed. “If we knew any sign language, I’m sure we’d see they’re just harassed as any camp counselor who can hear.”

“Children,” Bilbo returned with a shrug. It was usually a fair explanation, however fond he was of them. 

As the summer camp group filed away, the other instructor turned to stare at Thorin. Now that he was looking directly at them, Bilbo could see an old scar in the man’s forehead, deep enough to make him wince. That certainly explained a great deal. 

The instructor, however, was focused completely on Thorin. For a good long moment, he stared at him like he was trying to peel back the layers and get a look at what Thorin was like under his skin. 

Then he made the oddest gesture. He formed an “O” with the fingers of his right hand and thumped it against his left forearm. Thorin nodded and held a hand flat with the thumb curled in, like a “B,” and touched it to his temple and then his chin.

The instructor smiled at Thorin and nodded before heading back after the group. 

“So, does he know you then?” Bilbo asked after a moment of quiet. 

Thorin snapped to attention, looking at Bilbo as if he’d said something very peculiar. “No. I’ve never met that man in my life.” Alarm seemed to flood into him as he repeated the “O” sign against his forearm. “‘O’ for Oakenshield, hit against the shield arm,” he explained. His expression made it clear that he hadn’t known that until a few seconds before that. 

“And…And the sign you made?”

“The letter ‘B’ in the sign for head. To indicate that his name sign relates to an injury...”

Well of course Bifur would have given Thorin a name sign. It would hardly do for him to point at a person until the message was received. For as long as he’d known the man, he’d always communicated in little more than gestures but always made his meaning plain as day through them. Just like he’d been doing just now with his campers.

It was Bilbo’s turn to be spooked. How did he even think of that name? 

Bofur. It was probably because the man reminded him of Bofur on some level. He had to have made it up.

“We’ve been talking about ghosts too much. Let’s…” Bilbo couldn’t even begin to find the right words. “Balin will surely spare us a few minutes if you’ve had a fright. We can get a coffee around the corner.”

“Coffee?” Thorin’s mouth twitched as if it meant to form a mocking smile but couldn’t manage the gesture properly.

“It’s Dunkin’ Donuts and you do seem to have some very fixed ideas about American tea. Come on,” Bilbo shooed him in the direction of the donut shop while calling Balin to let him know that Thorin was feeling a bit off but they would return to work shortly. 

This time Thorin did manage to form a grim smile. “I think I’d prefer a dip in the harbor if it’s all the same.”

Neither of them made good on the suggestion. Bilbo led and Thorin agreeably followed along until they were in the Dunkin’ Donuts, where Bilbo forced a hot, black coffee into Thorin’s hand. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, you know.”

“Hardly.” Thorin took a long drink from his cup and then breathed deeply. “Thank you.”

“It’s just coffee.” He didn’t know what to do with Thorin thanking him and so Bilbo defaulted to argument. 

“I don’t know what came over me.” Thorin rubbed as his forehead.

“It happens to me sometimes. Odd moment of déja vu, I guess.” Bilbo poured cream into his coffee and added three sugars. “It happens to everyone now and then, supposedly.” 

Thorin drank down the remainder of his coffee, nodding again. “It must be that, I suppose.” 

Hoping to lighten the moment, Bilbo attempted a smile. “If you’re concerned, we’re not short of purported psychics to read your palm and tea leaves. If you seek answers, I suppose.” 

Thorin chuckled very slightly. “I sincerely doubt that that is what I need.” 

“It’s all–what’s the phrase–fairytales and hokum, isn’t it?” 

“Something like that.” His coffee drained, Thorin rose from the table. “We ought not stretch Balin’s patience too thin. And still need to find a more appropriate mount for the map from the fifties.” 

“It’s difficult to find the right thing to suit the piece and match it to all the older maps,” Bilbo agreed. “But it’s got to be done.” Wondering if it was appropriate to ask, he looked to Thorin. “Are you all right?”

“As anyone ever is.” Thorin opened the door but gestured for Bilbo to lead the way. He had to duck his head down to hide a smile; Thorin was always trying to make it look like he had a sense of direction but was being generous by letting others lead. 

Rounding another corner took them past a quiet stretch of land, bordered by low stone walls. Words were carved into them that Bilbo had learned in his school days. _Lord help me. I am wholly innocent._ At least that was what the stones might read if it and the other phrases hadn’t been cut off, just as those tried for witchcraft had been forced into silence. Stone benches, also carved with words and names, jutted out at odd angles, making it difficult to sit comfortably if one were to try. It was a testament to superstition over reason, forcing the accused into a state of hopeless panic.

This memorial was one of the few that seemed appropriate to the town’s legacy. 

The shadows shifted and there was a tall old man standing at the opposite edge of the memorial, his head bent to read the contents of the stones there. _Oh dear, not again._ Bilbo sighed and looked over to the other edge. Perhaps he had tempted fate by talking of ghost stories too much. 

The old man straightened and turned to get a better look at him, giving Bilbo a nod and a smile. 

“You can see him?” 

Thorin’s question startled him. He couldn’t possibly mean the ghost? “See who.”

Thorin tilted his head towards the ghostly man. “That old man over there.”

Bilbo stared at Thorin, mouth nearly hanging open. “Yes. I’ve seen him all my life. Ever since I was little.” 

It was hard to properly read Thorin’s face then. His eyes were wide and he looked between Bilbo and the edge of the memorial as the ghost faded from sight. “No one has ever been able to see him. All my life, it was only me.” 

This he could not simply blame on coincidence and, slowly, Bilbo nodded his head. “Yes. My parents and my friends never saw him. It was only ever me.” His chest felt tight and his vision swam. “I think I really must get back to the museum. Post haste.” 

Now Thorin truly took the lead. He grabbed Bilbo’s arm and steered him back to the museum. They walked in silence and Thorin seemed to be as deeply confused as Bilbo felt. 

“So…” Bilbo attempted as they approached the museum. “I hope you don’t take this as a reason to revisit my idea about the palm reader. That was just a joke, I’ll have you know.”

“That much, I didn’t doubt.” Thorin got a cold bottle of water out of the vending machine and passed it over. 

Back in the workroom, Thorin sat down to contemplate the maps in front of him and Bilbo did the same. Perhaps the maps were difficult to read or badly in need of restore, but they made worlds more sense to him than anything else at the moment. 

When he finally went home that night, he didn’t even need to wave off Fili and Kili when they were on the porch.

“You all right?” Kili asked it first. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bilbo tried not to laugh as he shook his head. “It was very difficult at the office today. I’ll have to cancel for tonight.”

Neither of them tried to protest. Instead, Fili shooed him up the stairs. “Feel better, Mr. Baggins.” He added a little bow as though it might emphasize how serious he was. 

“I will try,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say at the end of the last chapter that Ori's experience with a concussion from a printing press is...entirely based on events from my own life. Oops.
> 
> Bifur's sign for Thorin is based on the scene during the Unexpected Party when he slaps a hand against his forearm. Someone suggested that that was his sign for Thorin. Thorin's sign for Bifur is one I just made up. 
> 
> And yes. America runs on Dunkin. Forever. At least in Massachusetts.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music: To the Lighthouse by Patrick Wolf

By late August, students began flooding into the state like a mass migration, their families all in tow. It seemed to prompt the entire city to decide that Halloween was just around the corner. Orange and black banners and streamers festooned every available surface that wasn’t being used to promote witch tours and historical attractions to visiting family members. Fili and Kili must have been waiting in ever-growing anticipation because their half of the house was perfectly respectable one day and then hideously decorated the next. 

As far as Bilbo was concerned, he’d never been less inclined to discuss ghosts or any aspect of the hereafter. 

When he and Thorin spoke at work, topics remained firmly in recorded history or the here and now. Neither of them dared to revisit their shared experience with the staring ghost. The show was ready to install, for which Bilbo was grateful. Running back and forth between the gallery and the workroom kept him from thinking. Letting his mind wander only resulted in crooked hangings and wasted work. Some days that was easier said than done.

“You look as if you’re going to drown in that painting,” Thorin said one morning. Bilbo was startled out of his contemplation of the leveling and nearly spun around into him.

“Well!” he tried to think of a retort but when none emerged, Bilbo settled for aggressively smoothing his sweater. “Does the angle look right to you?” 

Thorin stared at the painting a moment before taking several paces back. Bilbo followed, watching for Thorin’s reaction rather than glancing at the painting itself. It didn’t tell him much; Thorin was inscrutable as ever. The only change in his expression was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Bilbo was familiar with that gaze only because it had been turned on him many a time. He rather preferred that it was focused on the painting; it was a scouring look that felt like Thorin could see under skin and muscle and search right through the marrow of him.

“Seven centimeters up and four left,” he pronounced. “But the leveling itself was fine.”

Bilbo tutted and went back for his tape measure, unsurprised that the praise was leveled on something now irrelevant. 

He was about to begin the adjustments when Thorin shook his head. “Take lunch.”

“It’s only eleven.” It was time for a midmorning snack, not lunch. Didn’t he know the difference.

“And we’ve been scrutinizing these for so long that I’ll be rearranging them in my sleep tonight. Your eyes need a break if you were too engrossed to realize how unevenly it hung next to the others.” 

Was Thorin incapable of anything but backhanded concern? 

“I will go to the printer’s and pick up the preview posters,” he said. The air would do him good.

“With _what_?” It wasn’t asked angrily, at least by Thorin’s standards, but Bilbo could barely understand why the question had even arisen. Before he could say as much, Thorin continued, gesturing in the vague direction of the parking lot. “I’ve a rental.”

“For a few posters? I can roll them up and get them on the back of my bicycle.”

“Or I could drive.”

“Yes but that rather undermines the issue of _my_ eyes apparently needing a break.” At times like this, he missed his magic ring terribly. If only he could pull it from his waistcoat pocket and use it to slip away and have done with the debate. When he put his hand on the hem, he remembered that he was wearing a knitted fisherman’s sweater, not a waistcoat, and had no pockets at all. Bother. 

Thorin seemed on the verge dumping the floor tarp over Bilbo’s head and carrying him off before he said, “Then we may as well go together. We’ll both get a break and accomplish it faster than you would have on your bicycle.”

Bilbo shrugged his agreement. Let Thorin discover the perils of driving anywhere while out of state visitors were clogging the road if he thought that little of Bilbo’s bicycle. 

\---

What ought to have been a fifteen-minute errand had rapidly become a drawn out battle of inches, punctuated by Thorin’s grumbling. “Doesn’t anyone around here have the slightest conception of how to drive?” he demanded. 

“They’re all students and we’re in Massachusetts,” Bilbo said. “So. _No._ ” 

Thorin shook his head. He was massaging his forehead with his fingertips, but the odd angle of his hand gave Bilbo the impression that it was actually an attempt to hide the wry smile that Thorin couldn’t quite suppress on his own. “And you cycle through this every day?”

Bilbo huffed a little. “If you must know, I don’t care for cars.” 

“Why not?” 

Because anything that growled and belched smoke like a dragon was no proper conveyance for a gentle-hobbit of the Shire was why. Bilbo very nearly said as much before he realized he had no idea what a hobbit was or where a Shire could be. Instead, he replied, “Because there are fewer places you’re allowed to park than not around here and you’ll just get stuck in traffic like this on the way to them. No thank you. I’ll bike instead!” 

“Are you always this stuck in your ways?”

“It’s hardly that simple! Turn a corner here and I can just get out of the car and get them.” Bilbo pointed toward a row of businesses that were as busy as the rest of the town. 

Thorin nodded. “I would suggest that I merely circle the block but I’m not sure I’ll advance more than a foot in your absence.” 

Five minutes in line and Bilbo was preparing some choice words for whichever professor had decided to assign their students a spiral-bound collection of separate readings that had to be purchased at this very store. Given the slightly desperate expressions all of them wore, that professor had added insult to injury by having reading due on the first day. Their transactions moved quickly but there were still far too many of them between Bilbo and the understaffed counter. 

By the time Bilbo was face to face with the single employee that was handling pickups and ringing them out, he’d nearly forgotten what he was here to get in the first place. Instead, he stared blankly at the cashier’s weatherbeaten face until he waved a hand in Bilbo’s face. Snapping out of it, Bilbo shook his head rapidly. “Picking up for the Peabody-Essex Museum. I’ve got the receipt here if you need it.” 

“I know where it is,” the cashier–Nori, judging by his name tag–said. As he turned, Bilbo could see a tattoo of a star cluster over the length of his upper arm. It was a shame that his hair was tamed into a ponytail rather than star-shaped to match the tattoo, Bilbo thought. He waited at the counter with his museum card ready for Nori to turn back with several rolled posters and collapsible stands. 

“You’re all set, Mr. Baggins,” he said, taking the card without even reading the name on it. Bilbo supposed he must still have his badge on, though he’d sworn he’d left it on his jacket. Nonetheless, he bent his head to sign the receipt and collected the posters. Shaking away idle thoughts, he slipped out to wait for Thorin.

Despite their jests, he was waiting for Bilbo in a parking spot and pulled out to retrieve him. “The boot’s popped,” he said, nodding toward the trunk where Bilbo deposited the posters. 

“I got stuck behind students,” Bilbo explained as he settled back into his seat. 

“That would explain the unkempt and desperate people filing out,” Thorin observed. 

“It’s going to look like that from August until next May, so you’d better get accustomed.” 

\---

“Ah, I see you return victorious,” Balin said. He and Ori came forward to collect the posters, the latter looking very relieved to have a new task to attend.

“Only barely. Seems Salem State’s orientation draws nigh,” Bilbo explained. “We didn’t mean to take the whole morning.”

Balin just smiled at them, clearly having dealt with that particular change of the seasons many a time, and waved them off. “You’re right on schedule with the show, so I’m not terribly worried.” 

Given the time they’d lost to traffic, Bilbo carried his lunch downstairs instead of taking another break. He was unsurprised to see that Thorin had had a similar idea. His research partner was perched on an empty table, eating a packaged sandwich that must have been hastily purchased at a convenience store. It looked tiny in the taller man’s hands. Bilbo looked into his own bag where three doorstop-thick cheese sandwiches were nestled and wordlessly passed one over to Thorin before occupying a nearby chair.

“Are you always so well-prepared?” Thorin asked, raising an eyebrow as he accepted the sandwich. 

“Of course I am,” Bilbo said. Was that really even a question? As if Thorin and his friends couldn’t eat him out of house and home if they tried. “You may have noticed, but I’m not particularly interested in small meals.” 

Thorin chuckled, shaking his head in agreement. Still holding onto the sandwich, Thorin used his free hand to peck out some edits to a document on his laptop. “We’re apparently expected to put forth a few words at the opening reception.”

Bilbo nodded; he’d figured it was happening, but had hoped that no one asking about it meant that he didn’t have to after all. “What will your presentation be?”

“Balin suggested that I discuss the maps in the context of transatlantic journeys. What they entailed in the eighteenth century as compared to the fifties,” Thorin looked into his document, frowning a little. “You might do well to discuss either your restoration work or else the narrative you’ve drawn of the families that we glimpsed in the letters or the collections.” 

“You think so?” Bilbo’s tone was cautious. Though they’d moved on from the incident, they had both still chosen not to revisit his independent restoration of the map. 

Thorin raised an eyebrow at him, as if wondering what had prompted him to such caution. “Your work is excellent. Even I can humble myself to say as much.”

“Thank you. I think.” 

\---

It was halfway up the stairs to his apartment when Bilbo realized that his wallet was not in his pants pocket. His keys were where they ought to be, shoved into a different pocket with his much scratched phone and some coins, but the wallet wasn’t in any of his pockets or his bag. He must have left it at the office then, Bilbo told himself. Like it or not, it meant that he was going to need to get right back on his bicycle and go back to the museum.

At least he would have, were it not for the sleek rental car in the house’s parking spot. From within, Thorin was peering at him, eyebrows raised toward a bewildered Bilbo.

“You left this in my car,” Thorin held up a slim leather wallet, stamped with a pattern of leaves. “Probably when you paid for the banners.” 

Well. That was one problem solved and another beginning. Was he supposed to invite Thorin in for tea? 

“I found your address in the wallet,” Thorin added when Bilbo stared at him for a moment.

Behind him, Bilbo heard a door opening and merry laughter. “Bilbo!” Fili called. “Who’s your gentleman caller?” It must have been the fact that English wasn’t his first language that would prompt Fili to call him that. 

“Seriously!” Kili bounded out to the porch. He didn’t bother to lower his voice, “You didn’t tell me you had a _date_!”

Bilbo was sure the flush on his cheeks was a truly magnificent dark red. “Don’t be ridiculous, the both of y–”

“Thorin Oakenshield.” He’d gotten out of the car while Bilbo had been floundering for an explanation and was now holding Bilbo’s wallet out for him to grab back. “I’m doing some work with Bilbo at the museum.” 

Whatever they’d been planning to say, it seemed to die on their tongues as Fili and Kili stared up at Thorin. Between them, Bilbo noted that all three men bore a striking similarity. It would be very easy to mistake the three of them as relatives. 

No. Not a mistake at all. How could they have all been separated so long, Thorin and his dearest nephews? Why hadn’t Bilbo realized it sooner? The similarities had been literally staring at him from across the room. It didn’t feel as if time had stopped. More like time was exploding all around them and happening all at once, swirling and reshaping like the dessert in a storm. 

And then Fili spoke and they all settled back into the reality of the present. “Do you, uh. Want a beer? You came all this way.” 

Kili nodded, elbowing his roommate. “Any friend of Bilbo’s is a friend of ours. Unless he’s befriended an axe-murderer. You _do_ look a bit like Hannibal…” He quieted when Thorin raised an eyebrow at him. 

Fili reopened their storm door and gestured in. “Bilbo?”

“Yes, why not. I’d been planning to stop by with some of the bread I’d made anyhow.” He walked in, nodding his head upstairs. 

Kili grabbed Bilbo’s key from his hand and ran upstairs, shouting over his shoulder at Thorin, “He makes the most fantastic bread!” 

The table wasn’t laden with Bombur’s food this time. One end was occupied by a pair of laptops and some textbooks that were marked as “used” but looked as if neither the previous nor current owners of the book had so much as lifted the cover. The majority of the table was taken up with several _very_ used-looking books, open and closed, as well as a game board and some pieces that had been painted to resemble pewter. Interspersed between the books were all kinds of papers, covered in charts and drawings. The closest such paper was bisected by an illustration of a river in which a line of barrels spun along, sealed tight. Thirteen, all in a nice row. 

Bilbo looked over at Fili. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, uh.” He grinned sheepishly. “Dungeons and Dragons. Kili and I started playing freshman year. We’re doing some writing for our characters.” 

Thorin pretended to be looking elsewhere, waiting for Kili to return. Fili seemed to be more than a little relieved. “This one’s mine.” Fili picked up a figure that Bilbo now realized hand been painted by hand. It must have been done very carefully to achieve such a likeness. 

“A dwarven prince in exile,” Thorin said, not seeming to hear himself. 

He said it in time for Kili to hear it as he reemerged in the doorway, dropping the bread in surprise. “How did you know?” 

“What?” 

Fili put down the little figure, concentrating on the table. “My character’s a dwarf berserker. Kili’s is his brother, a dwarf rogue. They’re both…” 

“Princes in exile,” Thorin’s gaze drifted again. “Their home overtaken before they were ever born.” 

Bilbo’s stomach was beginning to churn as he watched them. That twisting, swirling feeling was back, threatening to knock him to the floor. Looking between the three other men, he wasn’t the only one. 

Thorin was staring into their eyes like he’d just found something but lost everything else at the same time. Kili had half-slunk behind Fili and was gripping one of his hands very tightly, anchoring them both to the present. Unable to watch, Bilbo forced his gaze toward one of the books on the table and scrutinized the page for a race of creatures known as halflings.

He’d never been particularly fond of the term, himself. “Halfling” had seemed so demeaning, as if to say that he and his people were only half as good as the taller folk that walked their earth. 

Which wasn’t this earth. 

His skull felt like it was too small for all of what was swirling inside of it. “Thorin, it’s actually, ah. Probably better if you raincheck that beer. You did drive here after all…”

Twenty-first century precautions for twenty-first century problems on a modern earth. No pale orcs or wargs or glittering jewels. 

Fili nodded, looking painfully relieved for a chance at some breathing space. “We always forget about that. We don’t have cars.” 

Thorin took a long, deep breath before heading towards the door. “Thank you for the offer. Another time?” 

Bilbo walked close behind him to encourage Thorin out the door for everyone’s sakes. “You look a bit peaky anyway.” 

“I feel it.” Thorin let the door swing closed behind them and walked to his car, leaning on its roof as he reoriented himself. “I must be allergic to those pets they have.” He couldn’t quite meet Bilbo’s eyes and his hands were shaking in a way that could only indicate fear or shock, not allergy, but Bilbo was too confused to let himself do anything but agree.

“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow. I–The wallet. Thank you. A-and I’ll try and have a draft of my presentation done tonight so that we can compare notes.”

Looking pale, Thorin nodded and just slipped into the car. Bilbo didn’t take it personally. 

Pelting up the stairs, Bilbo slammed his door open and closed and nearly threw himself into his couch as he tried to think...or remember…or whatever it was that his mind was doing. There was too much of it right now. Too much of it struggling to get away from William Baggins, curatorial assistant. 

He opened his computer, forcing stillness into trembling hands, and began to type. Nothing about the maps he’d been researching for weeks came to him. Instead, another story was rising up.

_”In a hole in a ground, there lived a hobbit.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this all goes according to my notes, we're about halfway through the story now.


End file.
